by Phil Walden
“Did Spenser know about the baby?”
“No. Only the….” Faversham hesitated.
“Call it what it was. Rape,” Olivia said. Her tablet pinged. She flipped it open.
Faversham turned to Start. “I’m afraid he might still use it against Tom. To hinder his progress or help his own.”
“I shouldn’t worry. With what you’ve told us, neither of them has a political future,” Start said.
There was a gasp from Olivia. “Look at this!”
She thrust the tablet under Start’s nose. “Catchpole’s made a move for the leadership. He’s caused a storm at the 1900 Committee, but then didn’t show up when it reconvened. No one’s been able to contact him or find out where he is.”
Faversham leant back in his chair, exhaling with the relief of a man who had accepted his fate but had one last thing to tell. “I think I may be able to help. My phone rang earlier. Just before Evensong. It was Tom. He sounded desperate. I could hear our chapel bell echoing on the line. I looked out the window. He was down by the gates.”
“Catchpole was here?” Start exclaimed.
“Yes. He saw me. I waved but he jumped straight back into his car and sped off.”
“What did he want? What did he say?” demanded Olivia.
“He kept pleading. ‘Please help me. Tell me what to do.’ ”
Suddenly the door to the study burst open. A furious Ross Williams stood there. He shouted, “So what did you tell him!”
Faversham shot up. “Get out! This is a private conversation.”
“Was it what you’d said all those times before, what you ordered your poor innocent boys to do!”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. I’m accusing you of abusing children, pupils of this school, over the last twenty years.”
“How dare you!”
“It was happening when I was a pupil here. It’s still happening.”
“You have no right to make such allegations.”
“Don’t I?” Ross replied. “I’ve waited a long time for this moment, for you to be weak and powerless.” He brandished a wad of papers. “Sworn statements from nine ex pupils of this college describing in detail acts carried out by you… on them!”
Faversham, speechless, reeled back in shock.
Ross turned to Start and Olivia, both shocked and open mouthed. “Sure, he wanted the pick of the bunch for his choir. But not for the beauty of their voices.”
Faversham fell back. “You make it sound so sordid. It wasn’t like that.”
“These statements say different.”
“The boys loved me. They saw me as a friend, someone to turn to.”
“You’ll get no more protection from your friends in high places, Ross said. “ Start will see to that.”
Faversham was crestfallen. “Tom never knew his father. He was always my boy, looked up to me, trusted me. If he was ever in trouble, he knew I would help. Why else after all these years would he drive up here, with that woman?”
Start shuddered. “What do you mean? What woman?”
“I’m afraid he has her. He has this Angel of yours.”
“You knew this and said nothing?”
“I was trying to protect him.”
“Did he say where he was heading?” Olivia asked.
Faversham shook his head. The two journalists flew from the room, leaving Ross Williams to slam the pile of papers down and deliver judgement on a crushed and broken man.
*
Start quickly made up his mind. So Catchpole had Angel. How he had come by her, he had no idea. But of one thing he was sure. Angel stood in the way of everything Catchpole had ever wanted to achieve, of everything he was on the cusp of realising. They had to find her and Start was certain he knew where Catchpole was heading. To the place where the symbol of a Puritan Cross was carved, where the body of a baby boy had lain unfound and undisturbed for over twenty years and where Angel would be in very grave danger. As yet, he had no idea where that place was.
Infuriatingly the cab had taken time to splutter into action but soon enough they were racing back across the Fens. Olivia phoned Deacon’s mobile to bring him up to date with developments. She was surprised. The sound of heavy traffic, punctuated by the burst of emergency sirens revealed that he was not in the office. Also the tone of his voice, the normally matter of fact, seen it all before boredom, was replaced by an excitement and intensity she would never have thought he possessed. She asked him to ring the police and also to put his entire staff on one vital task. Find the exact spot where the porter’s car had crashed all those years ago, by locating the whereabouts of the mysterious symbol. Speak to any experts, talk to contacts in the area or best of all track down Tom Catchpole.
“It’s an impossible task. She could have wandered ten to fifteen miles in the time before she was found,” said Olivia, now wedged on the floor of the front luggage hold next to Start. “We’re talking upwards of a hundred and fifty square miles.”
“We’ve no choice. What else have we got? I’ll stop off at the marina. Pick up some torches. You look in at the pub. See if there’s been any sign of the Sheikh. He’s still our best hope of finding the place.”
“If he knows and if he’ll tell us. Don’t forget last time we saw him, he tried to blow you up.”
They fell silent, each hoping in vain that Deacon, someone, anyone would call back with news of a breakthrough and the name of the location so that Angel could be found in time. No call came.
It was dark by the time the cab pulled into the car park of The Boat. Loud music thumped out and a throbbing bass beat shook the fairy lights adorning the entire frontage of the building. Olivia ran across to the entrance, pulling open the door and releasing the raucous din of the packed house inside.
Start jogged along the towpath, dived into his damaged home and retrieved two torches for what promised to be a long night of searching. He quickly retraced his steps across the bridge and back along the river. He slung the gear into the cab and leant back against the side of the door, irritated that Olivia was yet to emerge from inside. He reached for the full packet of cigarettes that had sat unopened in his pocket for the last few weeks. He was tired and not a little bit stressed. He had earned at least one. He flipped it into his mouth and pressed his lighter. As he drew the flame towards the tip of the cigarette he caught a glimpse of someone hurrying across the yard at the back of the pub. He paused. It was the barmaid, Sally. He was about to shout out but something about her furtive manner stopped him. Carrying a tray of food, she repeatedly glanced around her. With a last look to check she had not been seen, she disappeared into a derelict outbuilding. He cut the lighter, threw the cigarette aside and went after her.
As Start approached the barn, he could hear her speaking in a low whisper. Her voice was urgent and insistent. Start nudged the door, enough to see a man hunched up on the floor with Sally urging him to take one of several sandwiches arranged across the tray. It was the Sheikh.
“You must try to eat something, my duck. You’ve had nothing for days.” The Sheikh shoved the tray away.
Start pushed open the door. “Sally?”
Sally jerked back. “Oh God it’s you, Start. You didn’t half give me a fright.”
Start stepped in and pushed the door shut. He looked across at the Sheikh. “What’s going on?”
“Your boat going up. It scared him.” She leant across and gripped the Sheikh’s hand. “I found the poor soul curled up in here. The police were after him. I couldn’t turn him in. He’s harmless.”
“I know.”
“He’s not said a word. He won’t move, won’t even eat. He needs help, proper help.”
The barn door swung open again.
“Start?”
He turned around to see a bewildered Olivia standing in the doorway. Before he could answer, the Sheikh let out a terrified scream and shuffled frantically back against the wall, buryi
ng his head in his arms in terror.
“It’s alright, everything’s okay. She won’t hurt you,” Sally soothed, throwing her arms around him.
“I didn’t do anything,” Olivia complained.
“Don’t worry, love. He’ll be fine. You see you remind him of his wife.”
“What?”
“You’ve got the same hair colour. Soon after he got back from Iraq, he tried to throttle her….in his sleep. He’s got some illness, you see. What do they call it?”
“Post traumatic stress disorder,” Start replied.
“That’s it. He’s been running ever since.”
“I knew he was bad but not this serious.” Start began to rummage in his jacket pocket.
“He was terrified of what he might do to her, what he could do to anyone.”
“Look. Ring this number.” Start passed a card to her. “Ask for a Doctor Thorne.”
Olivia tugged at his arm. “We need to hurry. “
“He’ll be in good hands,” Start reassured Sally.
“We have to go,” pressed Olivia.
“You’ve found where the symbol is?”
Olivia shook her head. “Anything from Deacon?” she inquired.
“No. We’re just going to have to head north and hope to hell we get lucky.”
Slowly the Sheikh raised his head. He began to mutter.
“What’s he saying?” Olivia asked.
“Don’t fret yourself now,” Sally said, holding him closer still.
Intrigued, Start bent down close to him.
“We haven’t got time for this,” Olivia insisted.
“Listen!”
“Go to the….Forty Foot drain.” The Sheikh’s head slumped.
Start’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Go on.”
“Take… the…Old…Drove.” The distressed man was struggling to speak.
“Please. This is really important,” pleaded Start.
“Down to…the Sheep’s…Crossing.”
The Sheikh’s sad and plaintive eyes rose to look at him. He took a deep breath. “What you’re looking for… it’s there…on the bridge.”
Chapter Twenty One
A quick phone call from Deacon to Ed Donnelly had confirmed that Coburn was at The Globe and had meetings scheduled until the early evening. In fact, Ed himself had been at the last of those, suddenly and unusually brought forward by two hours. That in itself was strange and Deacon felt it necessitated immediate action on his part. After all, Coburn had a long held habit of planning well ahead and refusing to change his hectic schedule for anyone. Catchpole’s sudden pitch at the 1900 Committee, Spenser’s immediate declaration of support and the backing of Coburn’s media empire only made sense if they were linked in some way. Was it possible Coburn had a more demanding appointment, one to which he had been urgently summoned? Deacon knew the pursuit began now. He could catch the express train and be in London in just over an hour. He would then wait for his quarry to emerge.
The journey south was quick and smooth and he took a taxi out to the docklands, parking close to the rear entrance of The Globe, from where, he remembered, Coburn’s chauffeur driven Bentley usually came and went. He asked the taxi driver to wait. At first he seemed reluctant, warning Deacon that this would all go on the clock, before shrugging, settling down and dozing off on the promise of a profitable fare. It was good to be back. Deacon was not like Start in his attitude to London. Start was prone to say that his second favourite journey was the one into London but his favourite was the one out of it. Deacon, however, missed the old place. He loved its richness, diversity and pace. There was nowhere quite like it. He had rented out his old flat in Chiswick, since, when his working days were done, he had every intention of returning.
The nose of the Bentley emerged within thirty minutes and sped off. Coburn was obviously in a hurry. A perfunctory shove through the open partition shook the taxi driver awake. The promise of a hefty bonus, if he successfully tracked the flash car disappearing down the road, saw him step on the accelerator within seconds. The target car became embroiled in rush hour traffic and proved easy to catch. Tower Bridge was crossed before the vehicle swung right, past City Hall and onto Tooley Street, where it pulled up at a side entrance to London Bridge Station. Coburn sprang out, looked up and down the road and disappeared inside.
Was he catching a train? If so, where was he heading? Deacon had to be quick or he would lose him. He shouted for the driver to stop, rammed a hundred pounds into his surprised and grateful hands and jumped out. Cursing his extra weight, he attempted to break into a jog before awkwardly skipping down the steps onto the station concourse. He looked around. The place was heaving with commuters rushing to connect with their other lives, the ones for which they worked so hard but had so little time to enjoy. Coburn was nowhere to be seen. Deacon cursed, his gaze flitting across the possible exits he might have used. He shook his head at the impossibility of tracking anyone in this vast maze of endlessly mobile humanity.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him emerge from one of the station’s convenience stores. Pausing to pick up a newspaper, Coburn sank down on one of the benches strewn along the centre of the hall. He glanced at the pages as he turned them but Deacon saw that he was much more concerned to look around him. Was he noting who moved past? Was he suspicious of anyone standing still? Had he twigged that he was being followed? Just then Coburn glanced across in his direction. Deacon instantly pulled back behind a pillar. He’d been missing from London for over a year but he had no doubts that his visage had burnt deeply into the fibre of his erstwhile proprietor and that even from some distance he would be recognised. Coburn rose from his seat and began to pace not to one of the train exits but across towards the back entrance to the station. Releasing a deep breath, Deacon followed.
Coburn hurried along St.Thomas Street on the south side of the station. He stopped, looking once across the road and once behind him, failing to see Deacon as he again ducked behind a doorway. He then disappeared inside a building. Deacon shuffled up to it. It was a dedicated entrance to a bar. But this was no ordinary bar. This was the Atrium Bar. On Floor Thirty One of The Shard.
Londoners tended to split pretty evenly in their view of the latest tall tower to rise above the vast sprawling metropolis. Some saw it as an architectural wonder, a guaranteed future magnet for investment on the South Bank. Others saw it as one thousand feet of jutting, strutting indulgence, certain to be surrounded in the future by further overbearing monoliths. It might attract new money and new people but this was certain to be at the expense of ordinary locals who would join the ever increasing exodus to the relatively cheaper margins on the edge of the capital.
Deacon was firmly in the latter camp. He bemoaned the collapse of age old communities, ones which despite their poverty or maybe because of it, looked out for each other. The future for London could be seen in many of the large cities in America with centres occupied by the rich and the powerful, the disadvantaged banished to surrounding satellite towns.
He waited awhile, keen to allow Coburn to begin his ascent. For the first time he felt nervous, excited for sure but anxious about what he was doing and what he might uncover. Why had Coburn dispensed with his chauffeur? Was his destination so clandestine not even a faithful servant could be trusted? He hated to admit it but this was definitely a time when he wished he had Joe Start alongside. This was his territory. Not a smidgeon of doubt would have crossed Start in his prime. He would have just gone for it, torn up the place and to hell with the consequences. But Deacon could not call on his friend. He would have to do this on his own. He braced himself and walked in.
The small lobby was empty, apart from a long wooden desk manned by a receptionist. The doors to a pair of lifts filled the wall opposite the desk. Coburn must have taken one of them. The lift was ascending.
“Can I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked.
Deacon flashed his Press card. “I write for a provincial newspaper. Here t
o research a story on the building. We’re running a feature, offering several packages to our readers. You know the sort of thing. Day visits to take in the views. Longer stays making use of the accommodation.”
He snatched a look behind him. The lift had stopped. He would need glasses to read at which floor. He felt for them in his pocket but stopped. It might attract suspicion if he reached for them now.
“I’m sorry but you’ve come to the wrong entrance. You need to go out and round to the north side of the tower. Try the main entrance. That will give you access to the upper floors and to the hotel,” the receptionist advised.
“Ah I see. Sorry about that.” He went to turn away and then deliberately stopped. “Mind you, I could do with a
drink and something to eat if that’s possible.”
“The restaurants are fully booked, I’m afraid.”
Sure they are, thought Deacon, full of overpaid City bankers keen to experience air as rarefied as their salaries.
“But if you’re happy to settle for a drink, I can recommend our Atrium bar.”
“That sounds just the job.”
“Take the lift. It goes directly to Floor Thirty Two. The bar area covers three floors. But you can access all of them from that particular floor. ”
“Cheers.” That was useful, thought Deacon. Coburn must have got out at that floor.
“Not a problem, sir. Have a nice day.”
Deacon moved across the lobby. The doors to the lift opened. He entered and pressed the button. His ears popped as the contraption shot skywards. Barely thirty seconds later, he was stepping out into the Oblix restaurant.
The maitre d’ swept forward. “Welcome, sir! Have you a reservation?” The accent was refined and false.
“No mate. Just looking to get a drink.”
The man’s face fell, both at the lack of business coming his way and also, Deacon suspected, at his less than disguised London drawl.
“Then may I direct you to the Atrium Bar, sir.”
